Road Not Taken
by AllFourCheekbones
Summary: Prompt: "What if you applied the plot of Turn Left to BBC Sherlock?"    And so John makes one tiny alteration, and never meets Sherlock.


John takes a different path for his walk on his way to the Criterion Cafe. He does not pass his old classmate Mike Stamford. He does not find a flatmate. He does, however, find a flat that meets his budget. It's dingy and cramped and there's almost never hot water, but he's living within his means, and he doesn't have to leave his beloved London.

He manages to catch a cab for the last leg of the journey, shifting his few belongings to the new place. It's late, but something has the traffic tied up. John thinks there's been an accident of some kind, but he doesn't see any wreckage. He watches with grim fascination as a single body is wheeled out to the ambulance, politely covered in white.

The next day he reads in the papers about the conclusion to the mysterious serial suicides. The police had caught the murderer while the fifth so-called suicide was in progress, a game of two poisoned pills. The article was vague on the details of the last victim. A friend of the Detective Inspector on the case, as far as John can tell.

XXXXX

John does keep the blog, as his therapist suggested. Every day the blank screen seems to taunt him with the emptiness of his life. He forces himself to write anyway. He writes about his new flat. He writes about his noisy neighbors and his continuing quest to decipher his landlord's accent. He writes about the stray black kitten that adopts him. He's not sure if this counts as good luck or bad luck, and names the kitten Freak. Freak immediately decides he owns the place.

One day, he's surprised to find that the blog is actually full of stuff. Oh, it's little things. Day-to-day tedium. But, he supposes, that's what civilian life is. And it's not so bad, this life. He's adjusting to it. His therapist very suavely avoids saying "I told you so."

On a particularly boring day, he contents himself taking pictures of Freak and uploading them to the blog. He tries not to worry about what it means for his masculinity that he has actually spent all day obsessing over kitten pictures. But then he gets the comment, from a stranger this time. He follows the commenter to her blog, and immediately stops worrying. He clearly has a long way to go before his cat photos have gone too far. Still, the woman is nice, even if her blog layout is garish, and she mentions they're looking for help at St. Bart's. They meet for coffee.

He calls her Mary. Molly is a nickname, a diminutive form, and he doesn't want to belittle her. Nobody has called her Mary since she was a little girl, and it makes her blush. They agree to meet again next week. And the week after that. John gets the job at St. Bart's, and they start to meet regularly for lunch.

She's a sweet girl, really. Impossible not to like. But there are moments when she just looks sad, and she never tells John why. Probably just what working in a morgue does to a person. Hard to be cheerful with dead bodies everywhere, but if anyone could do it, it's her.

Police are baffled by a series of murders accompanied by strange symbols in yellow spraypaint. The victims appear to have little in common. Mary shows John the bodies when he visits her down in the morgue, as if expecting him to say something. They look like bodies to him. He's certainly seen enough of them already. Then, as mysteriously as the murders had started, they stop. The papers find something else to talk about.

John feels like something is wrong, like he should be doing something else with his life, but he can't for the life of him think what it would be. He has a home, a job, a girlfriend. Isn't this what he wanted?

He tells Mary he's taking her to the Chinese circus, but it's already left town.

XXXXX

John is not entirely sure how he wound up in this situation, but he suspects its his inability to say no to Mary. So now here they are, curled up on the couch in a sickeningly sweet manner, watching Glee. He tells her next week they're watching Bond, and she laughs and agrees. Freak is oblivious to any intentions either of them might have towards each other, and sits first in Mary's lap, then in John's, and then decides he'd rather chase something invisible across the back of the sofa. John hopes Mary didn't catch him humming along to Journey.

John is discovering that the problem with kittens is that they eventually turn into cats. He has expanded his morning routine to include daily games of What Has Freak Dismantled, usually followed by a round of In What Inappropriate Place Is Freak Sleeping. Furthermore, despite his attempts to keep Freak as an indoor cat, he has apparently been getting out. John keeps finding pieces of small animals left in conspicuous places. One morning he wakes up to a mouse head on his pillow, and Freak curled up contentedly on his chest. Mary assures him this is normal cat behavior.

He spends his lunches with her in the morgue most days. It's a bit morbid, but it has a certain charm. Lots of things have charm when Mary's around. She tells him about the interesting ones. Unsolved murders, mostly. They make a little game of it, some black humour to pass the time, putting forward their own guesses about their deaths. They eventually run into one of the guys from forensics checking up on a case. He's a bit uptight, John thinks, but not a bad guy. He joins their lunches sometimes, and they share their hypotheses. He's genuinely impressed by some of them. John's good at this.

Mary's upset when the host of one of her favorite shows winds up in their macabre collection. All three of them agree that there's something odd about her death, but they can't find anything on the body.

To apologize for missing the circus, John takes Mary to see the recently recovered Lost Vermeer. The crowds are atrocious and John doesn't see anything terribly special about the painting, but they have a good time walking through the museum together.

XXXXX

John loves winter. The city is fairly miserable, sure, but it's his favorite season. He got enough sun for a life time in Afghanistan, and it only made him realise how much he missed this. Grey slush in the streets, going out wrapped in layers of wool and cotton. Plenty of excuses to stay home with a hot cuppa and watch reruns. Mary joins him on his day in, and they watch Glee and play Cluedo. He spends the game mimicking Anderson in his investigation and calls her Molls when she beats him. She throws Colonel Mustard at him and laughs. It lands next to Freak, who looks offended and saunters away with his tail high.

It's a cozy Christmas. He has a little get-together at his place, cramped though it is— him and Mary, and Harry and Clara, who seem to have resolved their differences for the time being. John is not surprised to receive jumpers from everyone present, although Harry really outdoes herself in finding something so horrid that not even John would want it. He's not even sure it's actually a jumper; it looks more like some form of guerrilla art. He puts it on immediately. Mary brings catnip for Freak, which puts even him in a friendly mood. Harry makes a few comments about the kind of man who lives alone with his cat, but shuts up when she sees the tiny box he's hiding behind his back. Mary cries with happiness, says yes, of course she will, Mary Watson has a nice ring to it.

Not long after the New Year, there's a plane crash, Flight 007. Terrorists, they say. Blew up midair by a bomb in the luggage hold. No survivors. John and Mary agree something is odd. Plane crashes aren't generally 100% fatal, right? And there's something wrong with the way the bodies arrive at the morgue, but nobody wants to investigate anything. Later, the leaders of the terrorist cell responsible are neatly rounded up in a joint British-American operation. The story of Bond Air is finally released, and John and Mary exchange their I-told-you-sos.

Two weeks later the Underground tunnels fill with poison gas. It's an unprecedented catastrophe, the worst thing to hit London since the Blitz. An article in the Sun suggests that there was one woman who knew, who could have stopped it, if only someone were willing to meet her price for the information. That woman is the the one John cares about. The woman he cares about died gasping on the Underground. He cannot imagine a death good enough for the woman who would sell her country for her own safety.

Harry practically drags him to a bar. He notes she's fallen off the wagon again, but he's too tired to formulate it into an insult. Too numb. She tells him he's locked it all away, too practical for his own good, the doctor, the military man. Says he needs to drink a pint or two, and get it out of his system. She'll listen, be a good sister to him. She's probably right, but John can't bring himself to sob into his sister's arms in a crowded bar. It's the wrong kind of closure, and John's way of solving problems is not Harry's way. He's just not entirely sure what John's way is.

He's shocked to recognise the man next to him at the bar. He calls him Colonel as a reflex, and the other man looks him over and grins, reminds him that they're not in the service anymore. John says it's a surprise to see him, and buys him a drink. He explains about Mary, and Sebastian buys him a drink. It's good to see a friendly face, though. They trade war stories into the night, reminiscing on their time spent dodging bullets and court martials. This is what he needed. Hell that it was, he can't help but think of his time in Afghanistan as his glory days. Talking with Sebastian reminds him of when he was hardened and strong, before PTSD and a bullet to the shoulder brought him back down to the world of ordinary men.

After Harry takes a cab home, Sebastian asks John if he's still as good a shot as he used to be. Memories of the night are blurry the next morning, but that question still stands out to him.

XXXXX

Recovery is easier this time. He already has the coping mechanisms in place. He writes in his blog. He takes care of Freak. He meets Sebastian at the bar, and they watch the game over a pint. Breathe. In, out. Repeat: Nothing ever happens to me. Part of him believes that if he says it enough, it will be true. He will lead a perfectly ordinary life, and things like national tragedies will have no relation to him. Part of him hopes this is true. Part of him is terrified that it already is.

A few weeks after Mary's funeral, he's having drinks with Sebastian as has become usual. Sebastian idly notes that John still has his sidearm, regulations be damned. John's not sure how he knows this, figures maybe he said something after he'd had a few too many. He offers John a job, just a few days and some fresh air in Dartmoor. It's normally his duty, Sebastian explains, but he's needed elsewhere for the weekend. It sounds clean enough, and Sebastian promises he can carry the gun without any trouble.

John doesn't particularly like Dr. Frankland, but he's paid to keep the man safe, not to make friends. As long as he's at the Baskerville facility they have their own security, but he's prone to taking walks in the forest, and he is apparently afraid for his life. It's a bit of a nightmare for John, since the trees provide plenty of cover for anyone who might wish Dr. Frankland ill. Which, of course, is why they don't see him until it's almost too late. They're walking along the upper ridge bordering some kind of hollow, like a crater almost, when a man throws himself at Dr. Frankland. He is screaming about a hound. He has a gun, but it's like he's aiming at ghosts, missing wildly. John hasn't fired a gun since his discharge; his hand is still steady. He fires one shot, because more would be unnecessary, and his job is to protect Dr. Frankland. He knows that when their attacker hits the ground his job is over. He only aimed to incapacitate. Dr. Frankland assures him it's an honest accident in self-defense. John plays through the events over and over again in his head, trying to convince himself that it was the only way.

Sebastian is waiting for him when he gets back to the inn. He's already heard the news: the madman who had plagued Dr. Frankland is dead. A part of John is horrified that he has killed an innocent, but at the same time he feels alive. So very alive. Sebastian smiles and asks him if he'd like another job.

XXXXX

The early jobs are like the first one— protection, mostly, a bit of muscle. Nothing that would weigh too heavily on his conscience. He's keeping people safe, after all, and he never makes the first move. It's understood, though, that if he should accidentally fire his gun in the course of things, there are people who will clean up after him. He learns not to ask questions. John already knows how to follow orders. There is a comfort in knowing someone else is making the difficult decisions.

He stops meeting Sebastian for drinks, and starts meeting for target practice. The jobs shift focus ever so slightly, a minor adjustment of target. Accidents stop happening, because it's not an accident if it's done on purpose. John is very, very good at his new job. He's not like Sebastian, tall and imposing, violence written across his face. Sebastian is the one lurking in a dark alley, melting out of the shadows with something blunt and heavy in his hands. Sebastian's the one who gets pulled in by the cops on principle, who winks at the receptionist when they begrudgingly admit they don't have any evidence.

No, John is the one they never suspect. He's the man from the cafe with the nervous smile and a soft woolen jumper even in July, who invites the girls home to meet his cat and watch crap telly. They see the pain in his eyes and the cane in his hand and want to fix him. Even Sebastian flinches away from some jobs, opting for the impersonal approach of a scope and a distant rooftop, but John remembers it was a woman who destroyed everything. He knows women are just as dangerous as men, and he knows that the ones who look harmless are the most dangerous of all.

He meets his employer just once, a dark-eyed man about John's height with a sweet Dublin lilt and a fey mischief in his smile. He looks about as threatening as a baby mouse, and John is acutely aware that he will likely not leave the room alive. He commends John for his excellent service. A credit to the Firm, the man says, always getting the job done and never causing any unnecessary trouble. Neat. Precise. Reliable. Admirable qualities in any field. As a reward, he gives John a slip of paper. There's a name at the top, then a space and another name and an address. Witness protection, says the most dangerous man in London. He doesn't have to tell John who she is.

In hindsight, he should have known it was a setup. When the men in suits ask him who sent him, he laughs and laughs, because he knows he's been had. They ask who his employer is, and he doesn't know. They ask where to find him, and he doesn't know. They ask what his plans are, and he doesn't know. His only comfort is in knowing that the woman bled out onto her plush designer carpet, but even that's soured by the knowledge that someone else was pulling the strings the whole time. He tells them his orders came through Colonel Sebastian Moran, and they look at him strangely, whisper among themselves, and eventually break the news that Moran has been dead for years. One of them leans on his umbrella and shakes his head, because John is another investigatory dead end.

He thinks of that one meeting, of the small, quiet man who smiled cheerfully at murder, and understands that there's no such thing as coincidence. That it wasn't chance that reunited him with Sebastian on the day that Mary died. That he was always meant to pull the trigger on that first job at Dartmoor. That every moment since his discharge has been leading him to this interrogation cell, where he has been crafted to be utterly disposable.

He knows that when Sebastian visits him in his cell he isn't there as a friend or a colleague. He supposes it's a kindness of sorts to send someone familiar. Sebastian walks in and out of the facility like a ghost, blending effortlessly with the government thugs courtesy of a dark suit and miles of forgery. John's requests are simple. He asks him to feed the cat until he gets out, and his smile is sad because they both know he isn't leaving. He asks him to put a bullet in the son of a bitch who landed him there, and Sebastian's smile is sad because they both know he'd love to if he could. John numbly watches him attach the silencer, and imagines with black humour the fury that will follow as the men in suits try vainly to find the traitor in their midst.

XXXXX

Everything is white. John wonders if this is what heaven looks like, and how on Earth he managed to earn such an afterlife. The first thing he sees that isn't white is Sherlock, which supports his theory that he has died and gone to heaven. The second thing he sees that isn't white is Anderson, with whom Sherlock is arguing violently, and he decides that no, this must be hell, and Satan just has a taste for ironic decor. As if to illustrate, a demon stops by and prods him everywhere he hurts, then insists that he drink something vile. Sherlock takes note of him for the first time and says his name, very softly.

Details slowly begin to fade into place. The whiteness congeals into a tangle of beeping machines, pristine sheets, and florescent lights overhead. Of course. He's used to being on the other side of the hospital bed. His head swims with a morphine fog, and he doesn't bother to take an inventory of his injuries, which are almost certainly grievous. He starts to piece together facts. He remembers a daring plan by Lestrade, playing bait to the last remaining member of Moriarty's organization. He remembers a showdown in an abandoned warehouse. A devastatingly familiar gunman who called John by name and rank before taking aim. And then Sherlock, dropping from the rafters like the goddamn Batman, coat trailing dramatically behind him. It's like something out of the movies. It'll be one hell of a blog entry, and he hasn't even gotten the story of how Sherlock faked his death yet.

But that can wait. For now, he can rest and recover. When he wakes up, Sherlock will still be there. That's all he really wanted.


End file.
